Memory
by PotterheadAna02
Summary: A man in his old age revists his days at Hogwarts, memories being the mode of transport. Emotional, humane story. Guaranteed to give you goosebumps, or at least a lump in your throat. NOT a ghost story. Won Third in the Time Travel Competition.


He looked into the darkness and the image flashed through his eyes: "Decorated War Hero, Most Successful Potions Researcher dies at 80 peacefully". There had been a picture of her too, showing her accepting a Lifetime Achievement Award at the International Magical Conference from ten years ago. He had peered at it closely, observing how her hair had greyed over the years and how she seemed to have grown more petite, but her smile and the sparkle in her eyes had remained the same. People said that age had been generous on her, but he knew the poise and dignity she had been born with, the air of self-assuredness she had adorned the very first day he had seen her in Hogwarts under the Sorting Hat. Her laughter...

He sighed at the memory and placed a hand over his heart, having anticipated the ache her memory would bring him each time, every day for the past 60 years. Knowing he would find peace soon enough, he took a deep breath and looked at his surroundings. To an outsider, his life would seem enviable. A house, rather a mansion of his own, a respectable job he had retired from, a supportive and loyal wife, a son who was said to be a just and scrupulous businessman and two grandchildren. Yes, his life _seemed_ perfect, but only he knew the heartache, the regrets he had to live with everyday.

Slowly, he sat up on the bed, his old joints aching as he quietly got up and padded his way out of the room so as to not wake his wife who was sleeping peacefully beside where he had lain. He did not even need to take out his wand and mutter _Lumos_, the passage known to him like the back of his hand and his feet moving on muscle memory. This had been his secret indulgence every day after the War. He opened the door to his study and took out the Pensieve he had, in quite a shock, gotten from Dumbledore. He cracked into a wizened old smile as he recalled the Pensieve lying on his bed with Fawkes, the phoenix perched beside it just a day after he had seen Dumbledore fall still off the Tower. He had pulled out a note from under the bird which had chirruped, bent its head into a bow and spread its wings out regally and flown away.

"_Use it well. I know you will value this most of all people. Keep this a secret. –A.P.W.B.D."_

He rolled the yellowed paper up and kept it in his pocket. Locking the door, he bent his head into the Pensieve and felt the swirling sensation as he was drawn into his memories...

_Age 11_

He had sighted her on the train, a mass of bushy brown hair and a responsible look on her face as she clasped a hapless looking boy's hand and barged into compartments, even his own, asking for a lost toad named Trevor. He had been eating on some candy his friends had brought and just stared at her for a while as she sniffed delicately and grimaced as she saw his sloth-like friends. Waving her hand dismissively in the air, she went as quickly as she had entered. He looked at his younger self who sighed wistfully after the girl.

A swirl of images landed him behind a pillar in the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat being placed on people's heads. He had walked upto the Hat with people whispering amongst themselves his house. The hat had announced the house he had wanted and he leapt off the stool and sat gleefully on the table, people thumping his back, but not before he had glanced at her, grinning and talking to a redhead on the table.

Buckling, he was drawn into the next set of memories.

_Age 12_

That had been the year he had been most frightened for her. People assumed he had something to do with the snakes and the Chamber of Secrets, and he knew that even she had considered the possibility. There were distinct memories he had with her in that year, but the one which struck him the most was how hurt and puzzlement flashed in her eyes after those wretched words had been hurled at her on the Quidditch Field. That look would haunt him to his grave, and he truly felt rotten to his core.

But once, he had sneaked into the Hospital Wing after Madam Pompfrey had shooed him out when he had come with some excuse, and had sat by her all night. He knew she couldn't hear him, her Petrified form chilling him to his core, but he stayed on, holding her hand, talking to her and explaining how much everyone needed her. He looked at his younger self from behind the door to Madam Pompfrey's office, waves of nostalgia hitting him like never before as the younger boy jumped at the sound of a door opening and extracting his hand from her nerveless grip, stroked her cheek once and lay flat under her bed as teachers brought in another student.

He looked at how ecstatic he had been when he saw her striding into the Great Hall, a smile lighting up her face and almost wanted to reach out and stop himself from falling for her, but seeing his ghostly form, refrained from doing so.

As people faded, he fell into the next year.

_Ages 13 and 14_

This had been the year she had thrown a punch, and he had fallen all the more for her. Her feisty spirit, her flare of temper, her pride-they just made her all the more attractive in his mind. He recalled her protective nature with her friends in Hagrid's class and how she had insisted on the injured young boy being taken to the Hospital Wing. Regretfully, he had only a handful of the year, but before he could dwell on it any further, he was swivelled to next year.

This had been the year he had finally admitted to himself that he was in love with Hermione Granger. She had looked so divine, so flawless in the Yule Ball and he had barely stopped himself from clasping her hand himself, from fear of upsetting his partner. He had sneaked surreptitious glances at her throughout the Ball and his heart had broken in two when he had glanced back at her at the end of the Ball. She was crying on the steps, and he had wanted more than nothing in the world to take her in his arms, without a moment's consideration about what his friend would say and just be with her. But he had just as soon, been jostled by people hurriedly and his older self sat with the girl on the steps as the younger boy was whisked off, listening to her sorrows like he had wanted to all those years back.

_Ages 15 to 18_

Dolores Umbridge was without a doubt, the vilest creature he ever had the misfortune to meet. She had terrorised the students and formed her own army to respond to the nobility of Dumbledore's Army and ordered people to capture the Army. He recalled as they were all crowded in Umbridge's office, everyone standing close to each other. _She_ was in front of him and flinched back when the older woman tittered into a laugh. He saw in amusement as his younger self almost buckled, the smell of her vanilla shampoo wafting to him. The woman was sneering at everyone and carrying out her interrogations when _she_ had cried out loud and told the surprised Umbridge that what she searched for was in the woods. He had realised she was bluffing and his respect for her just grew manifold, wanting to protect her from the woman's wrath.

Next year, he had seen her steal glances at Ron Weasley. The redhead was completely oblivious to her and he himself had been itching to tell her how he truly felt about her, but was afraid of her response. Of everyone's response. All this while, he kept trying to convince himself that his feelings for her would fade off by reminding himself of the inevitable War and how they'd face Voldemort but all his denial was expelled out from his heart when Slughorn had them prepare Amortentia. He had watched her step forward and inhale the scent and bitten back a smile at how adorable she looked when she had broken from the daze and looked around in a fluster. Later that day, he had sneaked back and smelt the potion for himself. With a faraway look in his old eyes, he could practically smell the same cocktail of scents that had rendered him speechless all those years ago-mint, fresh parchment and a heady lingering smell of vanilla. The same rush he had gotten when she had flinched and bumped her head against his chest. Her aroma. Just like her. Sweet. Tempting. Lingering. Hopeful.

But the events that year had been far from hopeful. He had begun to doubt his abilities and was at constant war with himself. But the moment when he had known that he would never be able to be the brave warrior that was expected from him was when he had seen Albus Dumbledore sink to the ground silently, waves of emotion crashing over him even as he had numbly stood to a corner. His older self breathed raspily from the stairs to the Tower as the great wizard stumbled and in a grace even as he died, arched and looked into the young boy's eyes with a piercing, haunting gaze.

Suddenly, all was still.

Everything changed.

The Wizarding Community was in total mayhem. Voldemort now reigned with no fear at all, hunting down all Muggleborns and manically executing them all. He had had no news of her, as she kept a low profile with the other two, but had been shocked to see the wolf deposit them at the Manor. Trying to keep to the sidelines, his heart had pounded as she fearlessly insisted right in the face of the demented Death Eater Bellatrix that the black haired boy with them was not The Boy Who Lived. Silently urging her to keep quiet, he was startled when Lestrange swooped at him and coaxed him to identify for himself whether the boy was Harry Potter or not. Darting nervous glances to his sides, he had leant and was momentarily flummoxed by the monstrosity of his face. But one look into the boy's eyes and he knew that it was a concealment charm or something of the sort. For despite the lumps and swellings on his face, those eyes were the same penetrating green they had been when Harry had walked in on him sobbing in the bathroom in sixth year. A look of understanding had passed between the two and he had stood up, faced his aunt and mumbled in a tremulous voice that he was not Harry Potter.

But his blood had run cold when the woman fixated upon the sword that had been taken from her vault and circled Hermione like a panther corners its prey. Barking a shout of laughter, she had ordered Ron and Harry to be locked away as she set her eyes upon Hermione, who was trembling but looked dead ahead. What happened next haunted him sometimes even to this day. She had shrieked and called out for help, and he had bristled, clenching his jaw hard and balling his fists up to stop himself from attacking the Death Eater, lest she kill Hermione because of him. Finally, she let her go, twitching occasionally, blood dripping out of her wounds as she stared blankly in his direction. He averted his eyes from the haunting look in hers, his palms bleeding from where his nails had pierced his skin.

When Harry and Ron brandished their wands, Bellatrix had seized Hermione once more and clenched her hair as the girl gasped in pain, her ordeal not over yet. He spat at the woman, disgust and hatred for the woman even after all these years, as his younger version quietly drew out the wand. Then, beautifully and so eerily, Dobby had unscrewed the chandelier and let it come crashing down on Lestrange. He had leapt forward to catch her, to protect her from all harm but Ron clasped her protectively in his arms and in his momentary lapse, Harry disarmed him and grabbed his wand. Then they Apparated away with Dobby and he heard of them no more...till at Hogwarts.

The Room of Requirement had been a forgettable memory and he swooped onto the battlefield, where he had stood to the side of Hogwarts, where he had wanted to belong. Where _she_ was. But his mother called him. He could sense the trepidation and helplessness in her voice. He knew she was just as scared and against Voldemort as he was, so purely out of his love for his mother, he strode over to the Dark Side without glancing back toward her. He knew that one look at her and he would run back to her side without any qualms. And then, like a miracle, Harry had risen, bloodied and raging as he waged the final battle of Voldemort's excuse for a life. As soon as people started rejoicing, his parents had quietly moved out of Hogwarts, but his old self stood back and surveyed the great old school with tears in his eyes.

And he was wrenched out of the Pensieve.

Closing it and keeping it back where it was, he padded his way back to his room and lay silently back on the bed. There was one more memory of hers, from a year after the War. She had come to bail him out of Azkaban and he walked out of his cell, shocked to meet his benefactor.

"_Harry told me about sixth year. I tried to speed the process for your bail, but this was the best they could do.." she had spoken in a soft voice._

_He had simply gazed at her, amazed at her magnanimity._

"_I knew there was some good within you...and the fact that you were at conflict with yourself and never killed Dumbledore...thank you for proving me right. And, Malf-I mean, Draco...I'm sorry." She had added quietly._

_He had almost fallen down in surprise. She was the one who had been tortured in his house, and she was the one apologising? She would never cease to amaze him and make him feel humble. Then, she hesitated for a second before leaning in and gently hugging him before turning and walking away._

He had soon gotten a job at the Ministry and had retired from the post of Minister of Magical Relations and married Astoria Greengrass who lay beside him, in a deep sleep. He had been nothing short of a supportive husband and a doting father, but all these years, his heart had belonged to Hermione Granger. He smiled gently to himself, breathing what he knew was to be his last breath, dying of a heart many times over.

Ah, yes.

Harry Potter may have been the boy to have defeated the most powerful wizard, but really, Draco Malfoy had died the most powerful of all. He had owned the Elder Wand temporarily, was dying for a love and now, greeted Death like an old friend.


End file.
